Either the big guns will get you or I'll load up the trike with Talibanfan and pay you a visit.

Thursday, 2 August 2012

Corps Crop Return to me softly. The Bomb Line Ended.

I have been rather quiet and reflective recently. Two
reasons. I’ve been contemplating whilst catching up on my Steven Seagal movies.
It is summertime and I’ve been pissed. Just to clear that last one up, I don’t
mean pissed in the Steven Seagal sense, I mean pished in the best Buckfast
sense.

For the past three weeks the secretive squirrel and I have
been conducting a debate about what the Hong Kong Phooey is going on. Man have
we burned a load of Qs and sunk a shed load of fermented vegetable matter.

After all that incandescent hot air we have not changed our
respective view points though. The ss believes the buggers are too thick to
orchestrate it all and that it is just a massive car crash that no one notices
whilst going about their lawful business. His unspoken thesis, which I agree
with, is that it is really our fault.

Your correspondent, as you know, sees the hidden hand. The
slow hidden hand with centuries to waste on its progress to the reunification
of mankind under a sterile and empty mens Pike, again. The main dialectic
though is that the hand was given to us. Engineered to fit us and that is why
we cannot see it. We are born innocent.

Last evening we had throttled back from the Lille local
blondes and as we sank our final cidre, yes we like French brew, and rattled
the coals, I resolved to tidy up a few loose ends here since the whole Q’ing exercise
had in fact clarified a couple of things that have been nagging at me for a
little while now.

Firstly though a little vignette from two weekends ago.

Having been Q’ing for over an hour and throwing the
accelerant around, as well as the blonde, with glee, BTW youz gotsta be careful
there otherwise the veggies smell like napalm in the morning, I parked myself
with The ss, Mrs The ss, Mrs INCOMING!!!!!!! and dropped a great big 2iC
moment. The table was laden with the finest carcinogenic, carbonised, charcoal
grilled, sublimated remains of pork, chicken, beef, alligator and emu. Some petroleum
jellied, soapy veggies were to hand as an aside. Then I dropped the classic
line whilst cracking a Bow “Of course all the trouble in the Mid-East, like Syria, is the
GGT’s doing”.

Well the Air Cavalry veggie problem was quickly forgotten.

“What?” was the universal response.

Well, I quickly realised that I was no longer Q’ing under
the LTMA in the rain, enjoying the heat, thinking about what I was going to say
to you guys who get the short hand, I was dealing with novices who believe in
unreality.

So I had to explain that the GGT is the BBC, covert spying
and ops, and that where ever they go dead people remain.